Interlude
by LittleWhiteTie
Summary: Keith takes care of Shiro after The Journey.


_There._

Keith's heart leaps into his throat at the sight of the tiny Galra fighter. He's fragile, Black tells him, but he's in there.

Keith guides the Black Lion's massive jaws to clamp down on the tiny ship, thrusters in reverse to ease the deceleration. Each move he makes is deliberate and precise, swift but gentle in carrying the ship to the hangar. The Lion sets the little ship on the hangar floor with utmost care, a mother with her cub.

As soon as it's on solid ground, Keith bolts out of the pilot's seat and leaps out of Black's mouth. He sprints toward the fighter as fast as his legs will carry him.

The ship doesn't open on its own. Shiro doesn't step out to greet him.

Without hesitation, Keith pries the fighter open with his—no, _Shiro's_ bayard, and… It's him. He's _here_ , he's _alive_ —though from the looks of it, just barely.

"Shiro," Keith breathes, reaching for him when he doesn't move. Keith tears off his helmet, and long, matted hair tumbles out. He's been gone for far too long.

Keith tilts Shiro's face toward him with hands too urgent to be gentle. Shiro's lips are cracked, his complexion a frightening shade of grey. His eyes are sunken and hollow. "Shiro, wake up," Keith pleads.

Shiro's eyelids struggle to open. They manage eventually, cracking open just a sliver. "Keith," he croaks. "You… found me."

Keith's chest swells at the sound of his voice—rough, weak, exhausted, but _his_. "Of course we did."

Shiro gives him the faintest of smiles, and then his eyes slip closed again.

Trying to remain calm, Keith reaches for Shiro's neck, pressing his fingers against his carotid artery to find his pulse. It's there, but it's rapid and thready. What _happened_ to him?

The ship paints a partial picture. It's a Galra fighter—did Shiro escape from the Galra _again?_ More pressing, there's a sharp, acrid odour telling of just how long he's been in there, yet there aren't any supplies visible in the tiny cockpit. There's no sign of him having had access to food or water.

A clattering of footsteps fills the hangar in a steady crescendo as the others finally arrive, gathering around.

"It's him," Keith tells them, falling into leader mode, "but he's not doing too good. Allura, can you lift him out of the seat? We need to get him to the med bay."

"Yes, of course," Allura says, clambering to his side. Shiro's eyes are closed, but he elicits a pained gasp when Allura shifts his left leg. He's conscious, if only just. He groans as she moves him again, lifting him into her arms. _Careful_ , Keith wants to snap, but he holds his tongue. _Patience._ She's trying her best.

"Can you guys go get a bed and whatever equipment set up?" Keith asks the others. "I don't know what happened to him, but from the looks of it, he hasn't had anything to drink or eat in days, and he might need a pod."

Coran, Lance, Hunk, and Pidge respond with various forms of affirmation and hurry out of the hangar.

Carrying Shiro, Allura walks at a slower, metered pace to avoid jostling him more than necessary. Keith matches her strides beside her, not wanting to let Shiro out of his sight ever again. It's a long walk from the Black Lion's hangar to the infirmary, and they make it in silence.

By the time they get to the med bay, the others have a bed set up for him. As soon as Allura lays him down, Coran calls her over to help him calibrate some of the equipment. On the other side of the room, Hunk is poring over various containers in a cabinet. He trades chemistry jargon with Pidge, who types things into her wrist device at lightning speed. Lance just watches them, his eyes following their back-and-forth like a tennis match. He looks lost.

"Lance," Keith says. "Help me get him out of this weird suit. Careful with his leg."

Lance perks up, eager to be helpful. "You got it, boss man." Keith's not sure how to feel about being called that when Shiro's back, but there are more pressing issues. He'll sort that out later.

There's no easy way of getting the worn, bulky suit off without moving Shiro too much, and they end up just tearing through the suit with Keith's luxite blade. Keith and Lance share a horrified glance when they catch sight of what he's wearing underneath.

Lance swallows. "Is… is that—"

"Yeah." The unmistakeable tattered purple of a Galra prison uniform.

Keith's stomach twists further as he cuts away the material covering Shiro's left leg. There's a bandage tied around Shiro's left thigh that's been completely soaked through, encrusted in dried blood. Lance blanches, looking as ill as Keith feels.

"He's gonna need a healing pod," Keith calls to the others.

"Unfortunately, the pod will have to wait," Coran says, looking over a jumble of numbers and letters on a screen. "The pods use metabolic energy in the healing process, and he hasn't had anything to eat or drink in a long time. We'll need to treat that first."

"We found something that should work," Hunk calls from across the room. He and Pidge amble over carrying a packet filled with a clear liquid.

Coran pours the liquid into the mouth of a machine beside the bed—some sort of Altean version of an IV. He fiddles with a few things, adjusting settings, and then he inserts the needle into Shiro's left arm. Or, at least, he tries to.

Shiro's eyes fly open, and he tries to tear his limb away. "N-no," he gasps.

"Shiro, Shiro, it's okay," Keith says, holding his arm in place with gentle but firm pressure.

"Nn… nnn…"

"Shiro, _please_ ," Keith begs. "You gotta hold still."

Shiro's eyes are wild and panicked, but they lock onto Keith's, and he stays still long enough for Coran to finish.

Leaving a hand on Shiro's arm, Keith glances up at the others. "Guys, is there something else we can use that's not…" He gestures vaguely at the line under Shiro's skin.

Coran strokes his moustache. "Well, we could stick a tube down into his stomach through—"

"Uh, I don't think that's better," Hunk interrupts. "Pidge and I can try to formulate some kinda oral rehydration solution that he can drink," he offers, grabbing Pidge around the shoulders. She nods. "Y'know, sugars and salts."

"Great. Do it," Keith says with a nod. He turns his gaze back to Shiro. "Hey," he murmurs, leaning in. "We need to leave this in for a little bit, but we're gonna figure something else out real soon, okay?"

Shiro gives the barest of nods.

"Just rest 'til then," Keith says. "We'll be right here."

Shiro says something, his voice too low to catch his words. Keith has to lean in even closer to hear him repeat it, his ear barely an inch from Shiro's lips.

"Just you," Shiro whispers. "Please. The others… I can't…" Can't truly rest with them around. Can't let them see him like this. Can't be who he thinks they need him to be right now.

Keith would tell Shiro they're not expecting anything from him, but that's not exactly true. The rest of the team only really knows his leader persona. Maybe they've seen it slip before, but for the most part, they know the person he lets them see. The team is familiar with his confidence and determination and reassurance, and they do need that part of him. They nearly fell apart without it. It would be fine if Shiro let them see beneath that, of course it would, but it's not something Keith could convince him of in a few words. Shiro's got walls up just like Keith; his are just better hidden.

"Okay," Keith says, quietly. He straightens up and turns to the rest of them. "Coran, you can monitor this stuff remotely, right? You guys don't need to stick around. I'll let you know if anything changes."

"I'll stay too," Lance volunteers. "I don't mind."

"No. The rest of you should get back to the bridge. Figure out a plan for how we're gonna infiltrate the Galra outposts Kolivan told us about."

Lance gapes at him. "You—you can't seriously be thinking about that right now!"

"Come, Lance," Allura says, grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him toward the door. "We need your, ah, _sharpshooter_ eyes on this plan."

Lance visibly brightens at the appeal to his ego. "Well, in that case…"

Allura glances back as they exit, giving Keith a knowing look. Coran, too, nods almost imperceptibly. Perhaps those Altean ears of theirs were able to hear Shiro's request.

"Supplies are in here," Coran says, opening a cabinet. He goes through the different items, though Keith is well acquainted with them already—he prefers tending to his own injuries after battles to having someone else fuss over him, and he's patched Shiro up more times than he can count.

"I'll be keeping a close eye on his vitals from the bridge," Coran tells him. "Let us know if you need anything." Keith thanks him, and then they're alone.

"Just me now," Keith says.

Shiro's face relaxes a fraction. His eyes flutter closed. "Thanks for staying," he whispers.

"Of course."

The rise and fall of Shiro's chest slows, evening out. Once he's sure Shiro's asleep, Keith strips off his armour, disinfects his hands and knife, and begins the unglamorous task of getting Shiro cleaned up.

He cuts away the Galra prison clothes, tearing the awful thing into unrecognizable scraps of fabric. Keith had vowed to make sure Shiro would never end up in that uniform ever again, but he'd failed on that front. Twin storms of guilt and rage crash over him, turning his stomach more with each inch of skin he uncovers.

More of Shiro's body is bruised than not, left a mess of green and yellow and brown. Whatever happened, he took a hell of a beating. His left leg is caked with dried blood from the thigh down. Gingerly, Keith peels away the bandage to reveal a nasty wound that's still healing. It looks infected, and the area around where the skin's been broken is burnt, angry and red and blistered.

The burn mark is shaped like a _hand._

Keith swallows down his nausea. He can't change what happened to Shiro, but he'll fix him up as best he can. He focuses on his task, wiping away layers of blood and grime.

A few whimpers escape Shiro's lips when Keith cleans the wound, but he doesn't wake. With practiced precision, Keith applies a salve and dresses the wound, his hands all too familiar with the motions.

He reaches for Shiro's face, dabbing at the blood on his cracked lower lip and wiping away the salt of dried sweat. He moves slowly, cloth lingering longer than it has to as it moves over Shiro's features. When his face is clean, Keith discards the cloth and abandons all pretences, cradling Shiro's cheek in his bare hand. "I missed you," he whispers. "I missed you so much."

Moments turn to minutes. Keith loses himself in a slew of emotions and half-formed thoughts, _how could this happen_ and _what can I do_ and _he's here he's here he's here._

Keith doesn't move until Shiro starts to stir. His brow pinches and his jaw clenches, a groan slipping through his teeth.

"Shiro?"

A hitched breath; another moan.

"Shiro, what's wrong?"

Shiro's shallow breathing picks up in pace, becoming harsh and erratic. Something on the monitor starts flashing, graphs spiking.

"Coran?" Keith says over the comm system. "Coran, something's happening. What should I do?"

" _Not to worry, Keith. It looks like he's just having a bad dream. Unpleasant, certainly, but not life threatening,"_ Coran assures him. _"I imagine you'll know what to do better than any of us."_

Just a nightmare.Not good, but better. Keith thanks Coran, requesting clothes for Shiro and a tablet when asked he needs anything, and turns his attention back to his best friend.

Pain is etched into Shiro's features as he suffers through his nightmare. It's difficult to watch, but it's better not to wake him. Keith learned that the hard way, and he's got the scar to prove it. He keeps an eye on Shiro's left arm to ensure the IV is still in place, an eye on his right arm out of instinct.

Shiro's distressed noises get louder, more desperate. Still, Keith waits. It's better for both of them, but Keith hates not doing anything. It's always been hard for him to sit still. He drives his fingernails deep into his palms and bites down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood.

Finally, with a stuttering gasp, Shiro's eyes fly open, dazed and disoriented.

"Shiro," Keith says, carefully moving in close enough to touch. "Shiro. It's alright. You're safe."

Shiro's eyes dart frantically, and when he catches sight of the IV in his arm, his right hand moves to tear it out. Keith grabs his wrist before he can.

"Shiro, please, we gotta leave that in," he says, keeping his voice steady.

"No, I don't—the lab—I…" Shiro trails off.

What lab? What did they _do_ to him?

Keith eases Shiro's arms back to his sides, keeping his fingers curled over his left wrist. "You're not there anymore," he promises. "You're back at the Castle. We found you."

Shiro doesn't speak, silence punctuated only by uneven breaths.

"I'm sorry it took us so long," Keith says, quietly. "I'm so sorry, Shiro."

The look Shiro gives him isn't angry, or blaming, or resentful; it's so much worse than that. It's mournful, despondent, _broken._ It crushes Keith, an implosion in his chest, squeezing tears from his eyes and carving fissures across his heart. Shiro's silence speaks volumes. He doesn't tell him it's okay, doesn't tell him _he's_ okay. His silence is honest.

"Where were you?" Keith asks, but he doesn't get an answer.

Agitated and afraid, Shiro's eyes return to the line in his arm. His metal fingers twitch. "Have to get this out," he rasps. "Need it out of me." The desperation in his voice deepens the hollow in Keith's chest.

"Just hold on. I'll see where the others are at," Keith says, keeping his voice even. He opens up a comm line. "Hunk? You guys almost done?"

" _Almost,"_ Hunk's voice comes. _"Give us a couple doboshes. We'll be there soon."_

Keith cuts the comm and turns back to Shiro. "Just hold on. Hunk and Pidge are on their way over. They're bringing something you can drink instead."

Shiro's eyes dart away. "O-okay." He doesn't seem assuaged at the thought. More distressed, even.

"Do you… not want to see them?" Keith asks.

"I… Of course I do," Shiro says, but he still won't meet Keith's eyes. "I'm just… tired."

Keith gets it. He really does. "Okay. That's fine. I'll be right back," he says, giving Shiro's shoulder a brief squeeze before heading outside to wait in the hall for Pidge and Hunk.

They arrive shortly, Hunk carrying a pitcher and a cup, Pidge carrying the tablet and clothes he'd requested.

"How's he doing?" Hunk asks.

"Can we see him?" Pidge chimes in.

"He's stable. But you can't see him yet. He's, uh, resting."

"Okay. Well, let us know when he's awake," Hunk says. "We wanna see him."

Keith shifts uncomfortably. "Right. Yeah."

Hunk and Pidge instruct Keith in how much solution to give Shiro and how often. When Keith heads back in, Shiro's already got his metal fingers over the IV, ready to tear it out, though his hand is clumsy and shaky.

"I got it," Keith says, hurrying back over, working as quickly as he can to remove it. Shiro's relief is palpable. "Okay. Let's try something else."

Keith adjusts the bed so Shiro's sitting up, his back at an incline. He pours a small amount of the liquid into the cup. "Here. Drink this."

Shiro's hands are still trembling, so Keith curls his fingers over Shiro's and helps guide the cup to his lips. "Small sips. Nice and slow," Keith says. Shiro obliges. By the time he's done, his eyelids are starting to droop.

"You can rest," Keith says. "I'll be right here in the room. I'm not going anywhere."

"Thanks, Keith," Shiro whispers.

Keith waits until Shiro drifts off. It doesn't take long. Keith pulls out the pad, brings up some files, and settles in.

…

Keith helps Shiro to drink the sugar-salt solution at regular intervals in between nightmares. Keith cleans him up and changes the sheets when he throws it back up, rubbing his back and soothing him as best he can, gently urging him to try again a bit later.

Shiro apologizes over and over—Keith shouldn't have to do this—but Keith reminds him of all the times Shiro's taken care of him. This is nothing. Keith doesn't mind at all.

Keith tries to do work while Shiro's asleep, but his thoughts keep coming back to Shiro. He has so many questions. Where was he? _When_ was he? His hair is too long—maybe the Galra did something to him; maybe he was somewhere where time moved more quickly. Keith really hopes there's another explanation; he hopes Shiro wasn't suffering for the years the length of his hair implies.

Keith asks Pidge to extract any information she can from the Galra fighter. As Keith listens to the pilot's log she downloads, he's unable to stifle a choked noise that threatens to become a sob. If Keith had been looking for him when they were at Thayserix, maybe they'd have found him sooner. He was in there for _seven days._ Any longer, and he'd have—

Or what if Shiro _had_ caught up to Voltron, and they'd done to his ship what they do to all other Galra fighters? Something awful crawls up Keith's throat, and he forces himself to stop contemplating what-ifs. He can't think about that. He _can't._

The space suit. Allura and Coran tell him they've never seen anything like the outfit Shiro was found in. It certainly isn't Galra. It does look like something that's been mass-produced, though—some sort of uniform, maybe? It's a good thing he'd had it; he'd used up the ship's supply of oxygen somewhere around Day 5. But why was he even wearing it in the first place? Was he out in space at some point, outside of the ship?

And the injuries. From the looks of it, he must have acquired them not long before getting in the ship. The massive bruises suggest he was thrown around. Maybe a crash? But the ship was intact. Maybe he had been back in the arena. He was definitely fighting something or someone. The wound in his leg looks like it came from a weapon—the wound Shiro had had to _cauterize_ himself.

And a lab, Shiro mentioned something about a lab. God, what happened to him?

Keith needs to know. He's curious, of course, but more than that, if it involved the Galra, it could be important to know for the sake of the mission.

"Shiro," Keith says after a few vargas have passed. "Can you tell me where you were?"

Shiro flinches. "I… I can't remember much."

"What do you remember?" Keith asks, coaxing him.

"I… Can we talk about this later?" Shiro pleads, and Keith can't bring himself to press the issue.

"Yeah. Of course." Keith puts a hand on Shiro's broad shoulder. "Well… whatever happened, I'm glad you're okay."

Shiro gives him a weak smile, one that says, _'that depends on your definition of okay.'_

"I'm glad you're alive, and you're gonna make a full recovery," Keith amends. "Let's see how your leg's doing."

Keith fetches the supplies to change his dressing, grimacing as he unwraps the wound. The Altean salve has helped a bit, but it still looks bad. "We'll have to get you into a pod as soon as you've got a little more in you."

Shiro freezes up.

"Shiro?"

His eyes are glazed over, lost in some kind of flashback. Keith waits for it to pass with bated breath. When Shiro finally snaps out of it, he vehemently shakes his head. "No," he gasps. "No pod."

Keith frowns. "Your wound's pretty bad."

"It was worse before. It'll heal on its own," Shiro insists.

"That could take a while," Keith says.

"You've been flying the Black Lion, right?" Shiro asks.

"Yeah, but—"

"So you can handle it for a little while longer. Can't you?"

It's a request. It's not what Keith wants. But if this is what Shiro needs, then… "Okay."

They settle into silence, something comfortable and familiar. Keith's about to go back to his pad, when Shiro asks, "How long was I gone for?"

It hurts just thinking about that time. "Eighty-four days." Eighty-four days of grief and loneliness. Eighty-four days of poor leadership and indescribable stress. Eighty-four days of failing to find Shiro. Why had it taken the Black Lion so long?

Shiro's expression is unreadable. Maybe it had felt like more, maybe less. "Well, I'm glad you were able to take my place as the Black Paladin."

Keith bristles. "I've been flying the Black Lion, but I am _not_ the Black Paladin." His voice is sharper than he intends, but he's adamant about this. "I could _never_ take your place."

Shiro's lips quirk up, and it's hard to tell whether his smile is genuine or self-deprecating.

"I'm serious, Shiro," Keith says, just in case it's the latter.

"You always are," Shiro says. His voice is exhausted but fond. "So if you've been piloting the Black Lion, who's in Red?"

Keith's only partway through his explanation of the Lion shuffle when Shiro dozes off again, falling into a fitful slumber.

Keith tries to keep working, but it's hard to focus on interpreting the Blade of Marmora's intel with the pained noises Shiro makes in his sleep, the way he gasps and shivers. He gives up when Shiro starts crying out, forming words Keith wishes he couldn't make out.

Shiro wakes from what sounds like his worst dream yet with a scream. With a surprising amount of strength, he pushes himself off of the bed, struggling to his feet.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, where are you going?" Keith asks, just barely catching him before he collapses.

"My room, or just… not here. _Please_."

Shiro should probably stay here in the infirmary where he can be monitored, but his eyes are pleading.

"Alright," Keith concedes. "But I'm not leaving you alone."

After sending a brief message to the team to tell them he's moving Shiro, he helps him to his room. Shiro leans on him heavily, and by the time they reach his bed, Keith is bearing nearly all of Shiro's weight. The walk there takes all of Shiro's energy, and he's asleep in a matter of ticks.

Keith claims the edge of Shiro's bed and pulls out his pad. He's greeted by the blinking lights of several new messages. _Another Galra outpost identified. Another distress signal. How should we prioritize? How should we approach this part of the plan? How's Shiro? Can we see him yet?_

There's so much to be done, and Keith's going to have to figure out how to balance it all. He'll need to decide how to divide his time between taking care of Shiro and his duties with Voltron. He'll need to find a way of preventing Shiro's reclusiveness from affecting team morale. Ultimately, he'll need to strike a balance between what Shiro wants and what the universe needs. He'll get Shiro to tell him what happened, even if it hurts.

Keith gets back to work.

Keith doesn't remember nodding off. He doesn't remember becoming a body pillow, but that's how he wakes, with Shiro clinging to him like an oversized teddy bear. It's distinctly uncomfortable—Shiro's metal arm digs in under his ribs, and his grip is so tight it's hard to breathe. Still, there's nowhere Keith would rather be.

He wriggles out of Shiro's arms just enough to roll over to face him. For once, Shiro looks like he's at peace, finally getting the rest he needs. Shiro pulls Keith in close again, eliminating any space between them.

There's a lot Keith has to do, but all of that can wait. For now, he's right where he needs to be. With a small smile, he burrows deeper against Shiro's chest. Taking in the steady one-two rhythm of Shiro's heartbeat, he goes back to sleep.


End file.
